


Cardiac Proteome

by Rhysaboy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred and Matthew are twins, Alfred gets Kidnapped, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, But not in a concerning way, Disaster Gays, Further warnings/trivia in footnotes, Gen, I'm going to bash engineers, I'm prejudiced against them, M/M, Matthew is competent, Mutual Pining, Queer Character, Recreational Drug Use, Roadtrip, University students are chaos waiting to happen, mixed race characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysaboy/pseuds/Rhysaboy
Summary: The ultimate meet-cute: destroy a $220 textbook on molecular biology, get baked, be crushed by a beast, and travel across three states to rescue a cute guy's twin brother from what might be a cult in the parking lot of a Denny's. Oh, they're just engineering students? Same thing, really.Gilbert may be a force of chaos but the quiet guy he runs into at the library somehow manages to quadruple it, all while having the sweetest smile and more sarcastic judgemental remarks than should ever be hiding behind that quiet façade.
Relationships: Canada/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Cardiac Proteome

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this document is "I can't believe I'm writing this in 2020". I went on a nostalgia kick and I wanted to contribute some fiction for some characters I really enjoy! I am not American, but I am Canadian and will be inundating the footnotes with trivia throughout this fic. I do, however, speak French - and Québécois, to boot. I will otherwise refrain from typing in languages I do not speak in fear of messing it up. 
> 
> I do not own Hetalia but I do own this work of transformative fiction and I do not consent to repurposing, reposting, or rehosting (ex. displaying through applications or other hosts outside of AO3) without explicit consent. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Gilbert had a remarkable talent for making wild first impressions. 

It wasn’t  _ purposeful _ by any means. There was just something about his impulsive behaviour and commitment to poorly-thought-out decisions that led to a menagerie of interesting starts to relationships. Granted, the same chaotic beginnings often heralded a premature end to any relationship (platonic or otherwise). He often pointed out that if he scared someone off by virtue of his antics early on, it probably meant they weren’t  _ awesome _ enough to appreciate (or at the very least, put up with) his normal brand of madness. It was just separating the wheat from the chaff, the interesting from the mundane - why bother putting time into friendships built on boring foundations? 

That said, there was a  _ slight _ chance that some of his first impressions were … less than awesome. 

“...  _ schieße. _ ”

Right now, Gilbert’s coffee was soaking into the marked-up pages of a textbook that looked like it ate other textbooks for breakfast. There was an absolute stillness as he stared in horror, fallen bookbag forgotten. In terms of disastrous meetings he had definitely had  _ worse,  _ but “ _ running full tilt into a table and destroying what was likely an expensive textbook with the coffee he needed to function at seven in the morning _ ” was not an ideal way to start the day. Then again, he supposed that “ _ having to study at seven in the morning only to have a textbook destroyed by a total stranger”  _ was equally as undesirable. Once he had shaken himself out of the shock-induced paralysis, he looked up to see a young man with utter defeat plastered across his slack features. There was no anger or indignance present, just a drooping of broad shoulders and the exhausted shutting of nearly-violet eyes. Something was muttered in a voice far too quiet for Gilbert to pick up on, and he grinned nervously in response to the deflated student in front of him. 

“I … oops?” 

It came out more like a question than an apology, and the withering response was a narrow-eyed stare, the young man’s lips pressed together. If it weren’t for the softness inherent in his wavy hair and baggy sweater, Gil could have been staring down the barrel of a tense dressing down or stress-related blow-up. Instead, the other student took a deep breath and grabbed a loose bunch of napkins out of his stuffed backpack.

“This … tracks,” the young man sighed, prompting a grimace.

“Uh, do you want help? I can try to - ”

“No, no that’s fine, I can clean - ”

“- at least wipe off some of the - “

“ - by my- hey wait!”

The other student’s voice strained itself as Gil hastily wiped at some of the pooling brown liquid, accidentally smearing the notes littering the margins. He was … only making this worse. He pulled back his arm as though burnt, eyes darting between the mess of coffee-splattered ink and the student slowly sinking further and further into his seat. The buzzing in Gil’s right pants pocket forced him to check the time, his 8 AM lecture approaching rapidly. For a moment, he was caught between the guilt of not being able to salvage the poor guy’s morning and the need to be on time for the lecture promising midterm review. Hovering anxiously for a second, he rushed out an apology.

“I’m really sorry about that  _ please-forget-this-ever-happened-good-luck-bye!” _

The speedy farewell was half-delivered at full volume, Gil’s feet already carrying him past a shushing student or two towards the lecture hall a building over. Behind him, the young man finally slumped over, resting his head against the table only to jump up with a start once he realized he’d planted his face directly in the puddle of coffee yet to be mopped up.

Good start.

* * *

  
  


_ “Francis, it was the worst. The absolute worst.” _

_ “It was not that bad.” _

_ “You didn’t see his face - I’ve never seen someone’s entire will to live crumble in front of me!” _

_ “You’re being dramatic, and that is coming from me of all people.” _

_ “I stand by what I said. I’ll see you at 1900?” _

_ “Oui, à plus tard.” _

  
  


* * *

One of the benefits of escaping midterm season alive had to be the post-exam parties. Francis was obsessed with hosting get-togethers, and the financial security that came with his mother’s well-paying career only served to support the habit. Not that Gilbert was complaining - he would have spent just as much time with Francis if the latter had lived in a hovel, so the moderately nice apartment with a full kitchen and homemade food was just a pleasant bonus. He came bearing gifts of beer and chips anyways because he was a  _ polite friend _ who knew better than to show up to a party empty-handed. 

It was a low-key scene, which was fine by him. Francis greeted him at the door, a light flush along his cheeks and a smile crinkling the edges of his cheeks.

“ _ Salut  _ Gilbert! Right on time, as always.”

“Can’t leave the fans waiting,” he grinned, looking out to see a dozen or so folks littering the living room. Some of the faces were familiar - Antonio was hanging off of his boyfriend on the couch, Elizaveta was demolishing someone at drunk Mario Kart - but a couple were unknown to him. He turned to Francis, who had already darted off to the side of the entryway to shoo Arthur away from whatever was cooking atop the stove.

“I invited my cousins tonight,” Francis said. Gilbert opened the bag of chips and hopped up on the counter for a sum total of thirty seconds before the other’s withering glare chased him off of the surface. “And a couple people from my still-life class.”

“You have cousins in town?” Was what Gil  _ meant _ to ask, though through his mouthful of chips it came out garbled. Francis got it anyways, and shrugged.

“Recently, yes. They did their undergrad at different universities, but they both came to California for their Masters’.”

“Ooh,  _ smart _ cousins. Here I thought the intelligence had skipped a generatio- ack!”

Gil’s smartass comment was cut off by the smack hitting his shoulder, and he snickered at the exasperation written on his friend’s face.

“You would think,” Francis mumbled, half to himself it seemed. There was  _ absolutely  _ a story there, and he ached to hear it. Later, probably, when Francis wasn’t preoccupied with the sizzling oil in the pan before him. “Alfred is the loud one losing to Elizaveta on the floor -” Gil looked over to see a strikingly familiar young man leaning precariously in sync with his on-screen cart, “- and Matthew is on the balcony for a toke.”

Gil raised his eyebrows, hoisting his pack of beer in question.

“Think I can trade for some of that?”

Francis nodded. “Don’t see why not. Come get food when the army gets hungry.”

Gil left the Frenchman with a bottle and a tousle of what  _ was _ styled hair (the indignant squawk was reward enough to make up for the hard smack on the back of his neck). He watched the madness of the Mario Kart for a few more moments, trying to place why Francis’ cousin was niggling at his memory so much. He didn’t care all that much - the guy seemed fun enough at first glance. When he returned from trying to barter for weed, he’d see about hanging out with the guy.

Francis’ place had a half-decent balcony on the second floor, and the neighbours were an eclectic mix of similarly well-off students and young adults in a more party-oriented neighbourhood. That was probably why they didn’t get in absolute shit for toking outside now and again. It wasn’t like Francis was a regular smoker, but he had enough guests to prompt  _ some _ consideration for the other building tenants. 

Before he even got to the balcony, he heard a quiet cough and indistinct voices. Opening the door allowed him to jump directly into a very, very heated conversation between the three figures seated on cheap plastic chairs and a very unfortunate beanbag dragged outside. He recognized Lars immediately, though the other two made him squint for a few seconds.

“The Canucks haven’t been worth cheering for since Luongo left and you  _ know  _ that -”

“You can’t pretend that Markström means nothing!” That was Lars, though Gil wasn’t used to hearing the stoic man so up in arms.

“- I’m  _ not _ but they’re  _ not _ better than the  _ Canadiens _ !”

Gil narrowed his eyes, adjusting to the dim light beyond the curtains drawn between the living room and the balcony. He could see clearly enough to identify a young lady passing the joint to Lars on her right and leaning towards the guy in the beanbag with his back to Gil.

“The Canucks haven’t even won a Sta-”

“Oh fuck off!” “ _ Je m’en crisse!” _

Gilbert flopped onto the secondhand patio chair in the corner as the other two gave matching cries of protest (or he figured it was protest, the guy-who-was-not-Lars was either speaking gibberish or had the worst French accent he’d ever heard). Before he could even offer a beer to Lars, one of the strangers choked on his water and had a complete change in tone.

“ _ Calice _ . You’re the guy who  _ destroyed _ my textbook.”

Gil nearly jumped out of his skin. True enough, one of the strangers before him was the exhausted student from this morning. He was in a different sweater (which tracked, given that the one from that morning would have been soaked in coffee) and had a pair of glasses perched on his nose, but it was definitely him and maybe it was the dim light and the haze of smoke but he was no less cute than he was this morning (why couldn’t he have been ugly for fuck’s sake). The strange girl started howling with laughter almost immediately, and even Lars managed a snicker behind his hand. 

“Oh my god. Oh my  _ god _ I am  _ still sorry can I please give you a beer. _ ”

The girl was finally done hyperventilating it seemed, and if there was any anger from the stranger it failed to show through. He did nod, taking the offered booze as recompense and - before Gil could offer a bottle opener - make quick work of the cap with house keys that appeared to materialize out of nowhere. Oh no. Oh  _ no _ . Gil was doomed because if the looks hadn’t been enough, any show of competency would have done him in. 

“Matthew.” Huh?

“Huh?” Gil could literally feel Lars staring at him like he was stupid and he wanted to feel indignant but he felt like his brain was rebooting. Matthew?

“Uh. My name is Matthew? I never got your name, uh. Unless I did? And I’m forgetting? I kinda lost my only two brain cells earlier today so it’s … possible.”

Oh shit! Introductions, right. The guy’s -  _ Matthew’s  _ tone and volume had changed  _ drastically _ in the minute it took to shift from heated conversation about Canucks and Canadians to whatever trainwreck they were aboard now.

“Gilbert - Gil to pretty much everyone.”

“I’m Ludmilla!”

The girl beside Lars practically shouted, immediately prompting a gentle smack upside the head from the Dutchman. He grumbled something about inside voices, and she snapped back that, “but we’re outside!” Still, it was enough to get Gil to look away from his early-morning caffeine victim thus freeing him from the social awkwardness he’d manufactured. The next pass around, he was included in the smoke circle (though they were getting to the last few puffs anyway). He tried asking about what they’d been arguing about before he showed up, but Matthew tilted his head back with such dramatic defeat that he didn’t dare pursue the topic after the quiet “ _ hockey” _ that was his reply. Luckily for his hockey-ignorant ass, Ludmilla started to grill him on his major and he took the chance to launch into a variety of complaints about the latest controversy between two of his professors. She seemed enraptured enough by it that he (accidentally) tuned out the other two and their quieter conversation. 

“- Francis is  _ completely  _ useless for the papers, trust me. I tried to get him to help with my language credit and he sent me a Duolingo link and a message that said ‘ _ I’m not your fucking dictionary’ _ .”

Ludmilla giggled and pointed to where Matthew was slumped in his beanbag chair, effectively startling him out of whatever mumbled exchange he’d been having with Lars. It was probably just the decreasing level of sobriety but even baked, Matthew was a fucking  _ treat _ to the  _ eyes _ and - oh he was talking again that’s delightful, he should do that more.

“That’s because, and I quote, ‘it’s not like you speak real French’ - your words.” Matthew responded to something Ludmilla had said, but he gave a funny look in Gil’s direction while he said it.

“You speak French?” He blurted, ever smooth. Ludmilla groaned with the strength of someone who is very familiar with what is about to happen. In stark contrast to the reserved nature demonstrated thus far, Matthew straightened up with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I will not be taking questions at this time.”

Ludmilla and Lars gave matching looks of incredulity in response, but whatever the cause of that, it was quickly forgotten as Matthew cleared his throat and leaned forwards.

“Uh, I’m gonna go to the corner store and grab … chips. And slurpies. Are there slurpies in America? Oh fuck I forgot we were in America.”

Well, Matthew was  _ far _ more stoned than his quiet presence would have betrayed. Gilbert watched in amazement as the young man whispered the smallest, saddest “ _ oh no I’m stuck _ ”. Predictably, Ludmilla burst into raucous laughter and Gil found himself getting to his feet to help retrieve the gravity-cursed student. His hands were surprisingly soft - and once again, everyone seemed to be levelling him an odd look.

“Chips?”

Matthew’s squeak of a question got a shake of the head from Lars and … a non-reaction from Ludmilla, who was hunched over her phone like a woman possessed. Gil realized that Matt had turned to look at  _ him _ now, and he stuck his hands in his pockets because  _ casual _ . Cool and casual and in control of his faculties. 

“Mind if I come with? I’d fuck with a slushie. Which not only  _ exist  _ in America, but I’m almost certain they were spawned, raised, and weaponized in America.”

This got Matt to laugh, holding the door open to the slightly-less populated living room. They’d spent  _ much _ longer outside than he had thought, and when they got back inside, Francis somehow managed to make eye contact  _ immediately _ and with such a withering quality that Gil clutched his heart dramatically. Matthew said something about “ _ letting my brother know _ ”, but the German was pulled by friendly compulsion to his friend. 

“Antonio go back to his?” Was his attempt at casual conversation, but the absolute stony-face that looked back at him seemed to shut down any hope of such a thing. Of course, Gilbert was past the point of being able to parse social nuances so the reason behind the expression was inscrutable. 

“You’re going somewhere with Matthew?” This felt like a trick question somehow, and Gilbert narrowed his own eyes as he marched on into the verbal minefield that this appeared to be. 

“Yeeees? He wants to grab chips and I’m gonna buy another pack.”

Even narrower eyes, and then some test must have been passed because Francis sighed and waved a hand with a flourish as though to dismiss Gil from his sight.

“Make sure to come back after, Matthew will need to grab his stuff.”

That was explanation enough for Gil at this point in the night, and he was summoned by the flash of blonde hair and red sweater that let him know they were leaving. He didn’t think anything of the dopey smile he answered with and then - 

* * *

  
  


\- Gilbert woke up with a dry-cotton mouth and an embroidered pillow smashed into his face. He had fallen asleep on Francis’ couch after what he remembered to be a lovely evening walk chatting inanely, maybe chasing a duck, and … yup, thinking about how warm Matthew was as a human being. He gave an aborted half-scream into the pillow, and then something bounced off the back of his head. 

“ _ Schieße!”  _ He protested even as he rolled onto his feet and stretched his arms over his head. The living room wasn’t in too much disarray, but given that he could smell some of Francis’ fancy coffee, he took the next few minutes to tidy up what he could see. They weren’t  _ monsters _ after all. If he was going to mooch off Francis for breakfast, he’d make sure the damn living room was clean. 

Immediately after though, Gil draped an arm over Francis’ shoulder.

“Have I ever mentioned I love you? You’re the awesomest bro I could have, the saving grace of the French people, the only-”

“Coffee’s in a mug at the table.”

“You’re awesome.”

He settled with toast and coffee, Francis finishing off some egg-based goodness that was sure to chase off Francis’ hangover and Gilbert’s … well it wouldn’t get rid of his dry-mouth but it would be  _ good _ and he wasn’t clever this early in the morning. 

“Matthew said you got too stoned to walk upstairs yesterday,” Francis commented, staring into the pan in front of him in what paralleled a hundred other morning-after breakfasts. Gil looked off to the left, half-expecting Antonio to be lightly dozing in the kitchen chair next to him.  _ Right, went home with Romano. _ If Francis had been interested in dating any time soon, he imagined their little breakfast-afters would dwindle a little more. 

“Sounds right. Lars always has good shit. Matt’s one of your cousins?”

“Mm. Yes.”

Last night, Gilbert failed to correctly diagnose his friend’s expression. This morning, he saw the tight lips and lack of eye contact and pieced together at  _ least _ that something was bothering his friend. Clutching his coffee, he learned forwards.

“Something bothering you, Francis?”

There was naught but the light  _ ssss  _ from the pan while Francis seemed to debate something, and Gil prepared himself to play a game of “what are we dancing around today”.

“... Matthew and Alfred are new here.”

“Mhm.”

“They’ve … had a little difficulty in recent years. It took me a few months to even  _ get _ Matthew to come to a party. He’s very … empathetic.”

“Francis. We have known each other for almost 10 years, would you get to the point?”

It was a little blunt, yes, but when it came to the friendship between the three international friends Gilbert tended to be the one to bring that kind of upfront (borderline brutal) confrontation. Antonio and Francis could act exasperated about it, but left to their own devices matters tended to devolve into passive aggression and weird double-meanings. So even though Francis glared at the plates he was loading with egg, he finally spoke his mind.

“I don’t want you to casually sleep with my cousin.”

A blink. A second. Gil’s face felt suddenly  _ very _ warm, and he met the narrowed eyes turned his way with indignance.

“I’m not trying to sleep with him!”

The flattest fucking reply. “Really.”

“Yes! No! I mean I’m not!”

He could practically see the gears in Francis’ head turning, and then some light seemed to go off and a contemplative “oh” escaped from the Frenchman’s lips. The defensiveness bled out from his expression, and a suspiciously light mood replaced it.

“Alright. I thought - hm. No, this is better. Maybe.  _ J’ai besoin de parler à … hmm. _ ”

“English. English or I start the German shouting.” 

Before any indignant protests could spur on the conversation, Francis’ phone buzzed, drawing his attention. Gil didn’t wait any longer to dig into breakfast, not paying attention to whatever Francis was grinning like an idiot about. Suspicious? Yes. More important than breakfast? Not even a little.

“Oh, and Matthew told me to tell you he left the spare key in your jacket.”

“Hmph?” A mouthful of egg almost took up residence in his trachea.

“The spare key to his apartment? He also said he texted you the directions and some advice.”

He was now  _ suitably _ distracted from his breakfast, patting down his thigh to retrieve his phone. There were quite a few from unknown messages - “ _ This is Lucille - Luddite - LUDMILLA HOLY FUCK”, “I’m an aliiiieeeeen”, “Btw this is Matthew”  _ \- oh shit! Making a mental note to go back and decipher who the fuck else he’d given his number to, Gil scrolled to the messages left by the guy he  _ actually _ wanted to talk to.

_ (###) ###-#### (03:13) _

_ Thanks sm for offering to walk Ourson _

_ He’s a chonky boy but he’s a good boi _

_ My sweetest baby boi _

_ I’ve given you the key to my heart _

_ My fluffy heart _

_ Swt bby boi <3333 _

_ (06:15) _

_ Btw this is Matthew _

Alright, save that contact immediately.

_ Me (10:21) _

_ Ourson? _

_ Also why tf were you up at 06h00 _

_ Coffee Matt (10:24) _

_ Right idk if I told you the dog’s name _

_ No sleep when you have a hyperactive monster living w u _

_ Also a dog I guess _

_ Me (10:24) _

_ Ahhh yeah the dog _

_ Coffee Matt (10:27) _

_ Fuck were you too baked to consent to dog sitting _

_ I phrased that weird _

_ But if you can’t it’s totally okay!! _

_ It’s no big deal _

_ Me (10:27) _

_ No no no _

_ Nah it’s cool dw _

_ I remember now _

_ Coffee Matt (10:28) _

_ Ahhh amazing, tysm!!  _

_ If you come by once in the morning and once in the evening it’s good _

_ If you wanna come more than that, he’d love you 4ever _

_ But like,,, don’t feel like you have to _

_ Seriously _

_ And I owe you  _

_ Me (10:29) _

_ Hey no probs _

_ Don’t even worry about it _

_ Coffee Matt (10:30) _

_ Ahhh thank youuu <33 _

  
  


Ah. Yeah. Gilbert was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Some trivia:
> 
> 1\. Québécois: In Québec, the regional swears are all religious. "Tabernac" refers to the tabernacle, "calice" refers to a chalice in which wine is served (within a religious context), etc. "Je m'en crisse" would be the equivalent of "I don't give a fuck" - though I think it would literally translate as "I give me a christ". A very, very literal translation. It is very funny to use these swears in France because they do not at ALL carry the same weight. I told a French couple that I spoke French, and they informed me once we began speaking that I "do not speak French, [I] speak Québécois". They're the same language, but the accent is very different. Additionally, you can do fun things in Québécois: "je ne sais pas" can be shortened to "je sais pas", which can be shortened to "ch'ai pas" (pronounced a little like "shay-pawh'). If you're *very* rural québécois, you might hear "ch'ai pô" ("Shay-poh") but even in Montréal you may get funny looks. France French is far fancier than the rural French I'm familiar with and Francis would likely be horrified by Matthew's accent.
> 
> 2\. Marijuana/THC: In Canada, recreational cannabis is permitted by federal law. You can't buy edibles in most places, but everything else is a-go. I'm 90% certain that all locations in this fic where weed is smoked, it is permitted by law. THC, like alcohol, should be consumed safely. 
> 
> 3\. When the goaltender Roberto Luongo left the Canucks, many a Canuck fan was devastated. Some of my favourite memories of hockey are watching Luongo and the Sedin Twins play hockey for the Canucks and we got /so/ close to a Stanley Cup. Ludmilla is based off Georgia (the country, not the state) which enjoys friendly diplomatic relations with Canada. Obviously, the Netherlands and Canada are also close by virtue of the latter hosting the former's royal family during wartimes (which later sparked the annual Tulip Festivals found across the country). 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I cannot promise regular updates as I'm attending classes in the summer but I hope you enjoy!


End file.
